


The Prodigal Prince

by AppleCherry108



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Anxiety, Cliches Tropes and Cheese oh my!, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, Fluff, Keith is not the most observant narrator, M/M, Oh No He's Hot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness, but it's not all fun and games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleCherry108/pseuds/AppleCherry108
Summary: Keith can't tell if he feels guilty or mad or both or neither. Above everything, he just can't believe anyone would do that for him. There had to be some kind of catch, some ulterior motive behind his actions.Or,Keith is a Galra prince sent to live on Earth, an Empire-occupied planet. After a kidnapping, one of his rescuers is assigned to be his personal bodyguard. Tropes and Cheese ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially I wanted this to be two separate chapters but I couldn't _not_ have Lance show up in the first chapter, so here we are.
> 
> Welcome to Exposition/Set-Up Central, featuring my lousy attempts at making up Galra names lmao.

A prince by blood, but barely by rite.

The Galra Empire is vast and its emperor seemingly immortal. Among its ranks there are countless kings and archdukes, and more princes and princesses than one could count in a lifetime.

Keith is not special.

Keith is barely significant; his blood so mixed and diluted that he doesn’t even resemble the great lineage he’s supposed to belong to. For this reason, growing up had been difficult. Keith was too far down the line of ascension to have any hope of even taking a single step towards the throne before drawing his last breath. He was so far removed from importance that the heated power struggle of the Empire almost never reached him. Almost.

No matter what distant, gnarled branch of the family tree he belonged to, he was still royalty, and that made him a lovely bargaining chip. The Galra were nothing if not proud, and a ransom made on one of but a thousand princes was still a ransom to be paid in blood. Keith had only been three the first time he was kidnapped, and he remembers vividly what such a price looks like. To this day he’ll still sometimes awaken in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat, the nightmarish memory of bloodied corpses haunting the space behind his eyelids.

And yet, those images that would interrupt his sleep on occasion were nothing compared to the horror that sat quietly in the back of his mind at all times. He was five when he was next taken, but that time he wasn’t alone. Several of his cousins—all his age—were captured with him, and for whatever reason, the vengeance of the Empire took longer to find them. Long enough that Keith was made to watch two of his cousins murdered—his captors' attempts at showing the seriousness of their demands. Keith vaguely recalls that when the Empire did finally come to reclaim him and the other children, that the carnage they brought with them had been tenfold what it had been previously, but all Keith truly remembers was the look in Princess Mel’iq’s eyes as she begged for her life, and the way Prince Arfurus screamed when they slit his throat. These are the things that sit in the shadows, crawling to the forefront of his consciousness if he sits still too long.

Worse even was the fallout after Keith was returned home. He had awoken in the medical wing of his palace to the sound of angry screams and frantic begging. He had held his breath, heart racing as he listened intently with the bed sheets pulled over his head. By the sound of it, the higher ranking members of the family had placed blame on his mother for failing to protect him, that “twice was two too many” times for him to have been taken. He remembers how they berated her for her own mixed blood, how they had said that creating a mutt like Keith was careless at best, but letting him be taken was just flat out irresponsible. “You’re already a blood traitor; the least you can do is  _pretend_  to be loyal to the Empire.” They called her a failure. They told her they needed retribution—they needed  _proof_  of her loyalty, proof that she  _deserved_ her blood—or else there would  _consequences_.

Everything had fallen silent after that. If there was more to be said behind the closed doors of the medical wing, Keith could not head it. He lay awake long into the night, shaking from head to two. Twice now he’d been ripped away from his home. Twice he had feared for his life, feared that he would never see his parents again. Just hours ago he had had to watch his family die with his own eyes, fearing that at any moment he would be next. But now he was home, and home was supposed to be  _better_ , but it wasn’t. His mother and father were supposed to sweep him up in their arms, crying joyful tears, and tell him how much they loved him. But they didn’t. Keith hadn’t even been able to see them yet; the attendants had whisked him away to medical despite his cries for his parents, and now he was just scared again. It wasn’t the same anxious terror that had overtaken him while captive; it was an uncertain fear that  _something_  was going to happen, and that was worse. When he was taken, he at least had an idea of what to expect, but here? In what was supposed to be the safety of his own home? It almost terrified him more than watching his cousins die. If the Empire was willing to do  _that_  to kidnappers, what would they do to blood traitors?

Keith awoke exhausted the next morning, unsure if he had even slept, and absolutely convinced he was still in a dream—a nightmare. Mother was…different; quieter, colder. And Father was just…gone, and Mother would not say where, but Keith knew. He knew by the way Mother couldn’t say his name anymore, he knew from the smug grins of satisfaction his uncles and grandmothers now wore. He knew with each passing day that Father was never coming back, that he hadn’t gone anywhere; that was just  _dead_. It had felt like something had died inside of Keith with him, and left a cold, shriveled pit where his heart should be.

So many people were dead, and Keith couldn’t find it in himself to care. He and Mother attended the funerals of Mel’iq and Arfurus—a grand procession of mourning that consumed the streets of the city. Keith couldn’t shake the images of their deaths from his mind the entire time, yet despite this he never cried.

There were always more funerals to attend, more hours-long processions to be a part of; not because he knew who Prince Atok was, or because he had ever met Duchess Janda, but because it was expected. It was expected because these outer branches of the family knew that the Emperor and the kings and queens that vied for his throne would never pay them mind, so it was up to them to show solidarity, to remind their subjects that even here, even at the furthest reaches of the Empire, they were strong, and they were many.

After so many funerals, Keith wondered why they never held one for his father, but then again, he was _just_ a human. The Galra didn’t hold funerals for the conduits of the Empire, only its products. When Keith looked in a mirror, though, he wondered if they’d hold one for a mutt like him.

 

* * *

 

Later that same year, Mother announced that they would be moving to a planet called  _Earth_. Keith had mixed feelings—on the one hand, his palace was the only home he'd ever known and the prospect of leaving the last memories he had of his father behind for some backwater rock terrified him. But on the other hand, it'd far, far away from the rest of the family. No more disgusted looks from his grandmothers, no more biting remarks from his uncles; a place far removed from the purity of the Empire. The prospect made Keith's heart flutter with hope—a feeling that had eluded him since his father had disappeared. Perhaps leaving the ghosts of his past behind to rot within the hierarchy of the Empire was a fair price to pay.

Earth was far from home; very,  _very_  far. The distant, forgotten planet lay at the edge of the Empire, a sort of intangible distance that Keith could not comprehend until he crossed it. The trip to Earth took  _years_ , but each passing day only solidified Mother's promises. "It will be safe there," she kept telling him, and at first such a concept felt like a fairy tale to Keith, but the longer their journey stretched, the more he allowed himself to believe the lie. Earth was remote, it was  _quiet_ —it had been conquered centuries ago and was entirely unimpressive.

During his voyage to Earth, Keith had been made to learn everything about his new home: the geography, its resources, what information he could and could not share with its inhabitants. The humans were at peace with the Galra, made to believe that the Empire was some almighty benevolent force. It twisted Keith's stomach to learn the ins and outs of how to keep the humans in line, how to keep them under the Empire's thumb. It especially hurt when—presented with diagrams of humans—he could only see himself being projected back at him. He was taught that the humans were inferior; primitive. The populace was docile and made excellent pawns for the War. Dozens of facilities existed across the planet for the sole purpose of training the humans to become foot soldiers—cattle to be slaughtered in a never-ending conquest. The humans thought it was an honor to die in the name of the Empire. Keith wondered if his father had felt the same way.

After three long years, they finally arrived on Earth. The welcome they received was extravagant, to say the least. Hundreds, if not thousands, of humans clogged every road and rooftop as far as the eye could see. The rumble of cheers and screams was deafening, colorful pieces of paper rained from the sky, settling in thick layers that made walking difficult. It was overwhelming, it was unbelievable: it was exactly like every funeral Keith had ever been to. Pity and guilt clawed at his lungs. The humans were overjoyed by his arrival, they couldn’t be happier to host him and his mother, two members of a vicious empire that treated them like livestock. Their welcome was undeserved and unwanted, but despite himself Keith found a small sense of relief wash over him. He would be safe here. He would be safe at the expense of an entire planet’s freedom.

 

* * *

 

Years on Earth were long and uneventful. After all the pomp and ceremony of their welcome, Keith's home life was quiet in comparison. Right away he was introduced to his very own adviser: a human named Coran. The man, in Keith's eight-year-old opinion, was impossibly tall and  _old_. Coran had more rambling stories about "the good old days" than there were stars in the sky. He watched Keith like a mother hen and although his official title was adviser, Keith considered him more of a nanny. Keith had a plethora of instructors—for etiquette, for Galra tradition; at least three separate ones to teach him combat and strategy—so Coran wasn't exactly unique, but he was a constant presence. Keith needed extra tutoring? Coran was there. Keith needed to be scolded for breaking the rules? Coran was there. Keith fell and scraped his knee? Coran was there. Coran was like some universal constant. Whenever Keith needed help, but especially when he  _didn't_ , Coran would appear in the blink of an eye with a warm smile and sagely advice that Keith hardly ever listened to or understood. The man was a delicate balance of comforting and annoying, and Keith delighted in giving him a run for his money. Deep down, he knew he probably loved Coran, but acknowledging those feelings always somehow felt like betraying the memory of his real father, so he quietly pushed them down time and time again.

It turned out Keith didn't exactly have a role to play on Earth. His mother oversaw all the Galran operations; everything from the minutia of the individual training facilities to the logistics of the triennial culling of soldiers. She met with human delegates and maintained the peaceful atmosphere between both species, and she was always traveling. Always. It was no wonder Coran doted on Keith the way he did—Keith barely saw his mother anymore, and the few times her schedule allowed her a visit to the palace, their interactions were cold and stiff, almost hostile. Maybe Keith liked to give Coran so much grief because, in his young naive mind, he thought that if he was bad enough his mother would be forced to step in instead. But she never did, no matter how awful Keith behaved. And even though the immature tactic never worked, his frustration and persistence snowballed together until Keith was known as somewhat of a problem child—hot-headed, short-tempered, and stupidly impulsive.

Yet despite all of this, despite his poor reputation, and despite the fact that he didn't  _do_  anything of importance, the humans absolutely adored him. They couldn't get enough of him. Keith quickly learned what the paparazzi were and how much humans seemed to love gossip magazines. News outlets constantly fawned over him and teen publications featured him in every issue. It was...a lot. More than Keith could handle most days. He didn't much care to leave his palace anyway, but even if he did he'd be swarmed by reporters almost instantly. On his best days Keith would snap and scream and maybe break a camera or two, on his worst days Coran would need to come to his rescue and usher him away because he'd gotten too overwhelmed and just shut down. For all the raving and adoration for him, Keith would've thought they'd be more respectful towards him, a literal  _prince_ , but no. He didn't think Zarkon himself would be able to command the ravenous hounds of the media.

Keith didn't travel much, but sometimes he'd accompany Mother on some of her more diplomatic trips. Keith hadn't seen much of Earth but he liked the parts he actually had. Japan was probably his favorite. He liked the traditional architecture and commitment to aesthetic. He liked it so much he insisted the palace gardens be remodeled when he returned home. He liked that his garden was quiet. He liked that no one bothered him there.

Literally anywhere cold was his least favorite place ever. He'd been to Norway, Canada, and even though the United Kingdom was a central hub to many of their delegations, he hated it. Whether it was just a chilly drizzle or a full-blown snowstorm, Keith despised cold weather. He thought it had everything to do with the fact that Galra prefer temperate, borderline humid climates. Coran liked to joke it was because his father was from Texas.

Keith liked Texas, though. He  _lived_  in Texas. The enormous and sprawling palace and grounds occupied what had once been a human city, and although the coast was miles away, the artificial plateau it had been built upon granted him a stunning view of the Gulf. Keith liked to sneak up to the highest point of the palace and just stare off at the horizon, pretending he could see islands and countries if he squinted enough. Sometimes he'd spend nights in his secret spot, watching storms roll over the water or counting stars, trying to remember which constellations he'd been to. He missed space, just a little. It was dangerous and large, but there was an undeniable sense of freedom, too. He missed not feeling trapped, he missed the feeling of accelerating without resistance. He missed flying, even if he wasn't at the controls. Despite the headache of reporters, Keith actually did like to travel. The Galra didn't share much tech with the humans beyond basic medical advances that'd keep them healthy as livestock, but they did keep a few goodies around for themselves, namely their ships. Where a human aircraft would take eight hours to complete a flight, a Galran transport would take maybe twenty minutes. Flight times were short but well worth it. Keith had clocked countless hours in flight simulators but his advisers adamantly refused to let him try his hand at the real thing.

Keith passed the majority of his time with either studying or wistful thinking. Over the years, he had managed to not retain much from books or lectures, probably in no small part thanks to his bullheaded and contrarian tendencies, but he had become a proficient fighter and master swordsman. What he shirked in academia he excelled at in combat. Fighting, unlike reading, occupied his mind. He was quick and agile, and often lost himself in training. This, he was sure, was because of his Galra blood. Coran worried endlessly over him during training, no matter how good he got. He couldn't understand why Keith would dedicate so much time and skill to something he deemed unnecessary, but that was just it. Fighting didn't seem like a necessity to Coran because he'd never needed it. Keith, however, could feel the ghosts and fears of his past evaporate with each blow he landed. No longer was he helpless, or scared. Should anyone be stupid enough to try and take him again, he'd be prepared. He could defend himself. No one else had to die for him.

 

* * * 

 

Not long after his eighteenth birthday, somebody actually  _was_  stupid enough to kidnap him. He had been in his garden when a he felt a sudden sharp pain, and before he knew it, he's waking up to a poorly lit room and a splitting headache. He tries to move his hands only to find that they're tied. Panic floods him as he connects the pieces and assesses the situation. He has to force several deep breaths to steady himself. There's no need to panic. He isn't a  _child_  anymore. He's prepared this time and this is  _Earth_  for Zarkon's sake. This would be dealt with quickly.

He tries his hands again and makes note of the sloppy, amateurish knot that had been used to bind them. He scoffs at his captors' incompetence as he easily frees himself. A tremor shakes through the room—which is more like a closet than anything—causing dust to spew from the walls. Overhead, the bare light bulb flickers ominously and he hears a dull crash outside. Keith carefully approaches the door and twists the knob slowly— _locked_. He smirks. Whoever had taken him may not have known how to properly tie up a prisoner, but they at least had the foresight to lock the door. No matter, Keith was prepared for this too. He kneels in front of the door and deftly removes two decorations from his vest. The long, ornate metal objects double as the perfect lock picks. The lock is stubborn, though, and the increasingly frequent tremors are not helping. Beyond the door Keith can hear at least four distinct voices. He can't make out any of their words, but they all sound  _terrified_.

He's almost done with the lock when the door is ripped from his ministrations. "HE'S LOOSE!" a masked figure screams. The revelation is met with a chorus of swears, and in the few seconds Keith has to take in his surroundings, he notes at least a dozen other faceless figures. Just as the one towering before him is about to grab Keith, a deafening explosion tears through the room. Much louder and much  _closer_  than the others had been. Smoke and debris quickly fills the space, obscuring anything more than a foot away. Before the kidnapper can right himself, he falls to the ground, blood pooling from his temple. The concussive blanket slowly lifts away from Keith's ears, leaving ringing screams and laser fire in its wake, and it takes Keith too many seconds to process the body in front of him.

Another masked figure appears beside him, pulling him to his feet and out of his daze. Before he can register whether this new person is another kidnapper or part of what he assumes is a rescue party, he feels the still-hot barrel of a pistol sear his neck. And again, just as soon as he can process the threat, the person is falling to the ground, the singe of a laser smoldering between their eyes.

Keith tries to stand, wobbly on his feet and disorientated. Out of the corner of his eye he can see two more fall to the ground. This is it: a ransom paid in blood. His body seizes up, refusing to budge an inch no matter how hard he wills it to. All he can process is the flash of lasers and bloodcurdling screams. The smoke and noise is too much for him; each breath coming to him ragged and labored. This is a slaughter, and he can't tell who is who. All he knows is that someone in here has deadly accuracy and he can only hope that they're on his side.

Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, and Keith's instincts tell him to throw this new person across the room, but his body still refuses to obey his commands. His thoughts come to a halt as a face seems to apparate from nothingness out of the billowing smoke. The noise and chaos drift from his awareness as he's met with impossibly blue eyes.

"My Prince, are you alright?" they ask, but Keith can only stare, unable to respond, throat thick with smoke.

Another shot sends everything into sharp relief and chases the blue away. The eyes shut tightly in pain as the person collapses against Keith, knocking them both to the ground. The last thing Keith sees are those beautiful eyes, crinkled into a reassuring smile despite themselves, as the body they're attached to works to shield Keith from an onslaught of pounding feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to fluff central.

Keith awakes in the medical bay of his palace. Light pouring in from the high windows mingles with the fluorescent glow from the ceiling, creating bright, painful spots that dance across his vision. He closes his eyes with a strangled groan. Shutting out the brightness does nothing to alleviate the stabbing pain between his eyes, but it at least dulls the spots from a vibrant neon to an almost tolerable pastel.

There's a chuckle to his right and Keith's heart jumps into his throat. There's someone else in here. There's never been anyone else in Medical after a kidnapping, no one that could find humor in the aftermath, at least. Keith turns carefully to find out who thinks a migraine and possible concussion could be considered funny. The answer makes his breath stick.

Blue eyes smile back at him, bluer now in proper light than they had been in that dim rathole. "How're you feeling?" The boy gives him a broad smile, lips catching on a long stitched gash that runs from his chin to his temple. Keith opens his mouth but no sound comes out as his eyes travel down the stranger's body. His entire torso is wrapped in fresh bandages but Keith can see dark patches already starting to soak through in several places. Keith shuts his mouth as he meets those blue eyes again, this time noting the heavy bruising along the left side of his face.

Keith narrows his eyes at the boy. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You look like shit." The boy barks out a laugh, throwing his head back into his pillow. That was not the kind of response Keith was expecting. He stares at the boy as he wipes a tear away from his unbruised eye.

"Indeed I do." He clutches his side as he shakes with another suppressed laugh. He turns back to Keith with an even brighter smile. "But you don't, so it's worth it."

Keith's heart makes a particularly hard beat against his ribs and he can feel his face growing warm. He turns away from the boy so he doesn't make a fool of himself. "Why are you here?"

He hears him giggle again and turns just enough to watch him out the corner of his eye. The boy makes a sweeping gesture over his battered body. "You know, I kept asking them the same thing. Told them I was fine but  _noo_ , it was all  _cracked this_ and  _broken that_." He's grinning at Keith again but he has no idea how to respond to that. Keith meant why was he in the medical bay of his palace, but he's not sure if he should try to clarify that. That was a joke, right? Who jokes about broken ribs, though?

After another tick of silence, the boy clears his throat. Keith feels his face flush with embarrassment as he realizes he probably missed a social cue. "It's nice here." The boy says, seemingly unfazed by Keith's terrible conversation skills. " _Way_ nicer than the magazines ever made it look."

Keith can't help but scoff at that. "You read that trash?"

He hears the boy shift on the bed and gets the distinct feeling that he's frowning. "I mean...yeah? Who  _wouldn't_ be curious? Alien prince, extravagant castle, majesty and wonder you can't find anywhere else on Earth..." He sighs dreamily. "Well, except the gardens. But even those are pretty impressive."

Keith is turning to face him again before he even realizes he's doing it. "They show the gardens?"

The boy's eyes widen with surprise before melting into a gentle smile. "Well, not all them, but a lot of the homemaker ones, yeah."

A small laugh escapes Keith. "How many different publications do you even read?"

A devious grins stretches across his face, and he doesn't even flinch when the expression stretches out his stitches. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Before Keith can even begin to consider how to respond to that, the doors fly open and bounce off the walls with a great  _thud._ "Ah, My Prince, you're awake!" It's Coran, towing along a gaggle of reporters. Keith groans and sinks into his bed while the boy looks on curiously.

"What was it like, your highness?" One of the reporters demands, pushing past Coran. "Were you scared?" shouts another, shoulder checking the first one. The questions don't stop or slow down and the clamor quickly works itself into a cacophony. Keith folds his pillow over his ears and clamps down on it tightly, letting out another groan. He hates reporters.  _Hates_ them. His head swims with all the questions screamed at him, not knowing where one ends and the next begins. Between their nagging inquiries and flashing cameras reigniting his migraine, Keith can feel his chest growing tighter by the second, keeping him from being able to draw in breath.

He feels more than sees the boy get out of the bed next to him. "I think that's enough questions." he interjects into the chaos. "The prince is tired, but happy to be home." His distraction works; the reporters turn the full brunt of their madness on him.

It takes another moment for the haze to lift from Keith's senses so he can process the boy's answers to the quickfire questions. Apparently his name is Lance, a student at the Galaxy Garrison—a Galran training facility not too far away. When the news broke that Keith had been taken, Lance and two other students—wow, only two?—took it upon themselves to form an impromptu rescue party. According to Lance, they had seen a van matching the description of the one the terrorists had used—terrorists? That's a new one—speeding towards the border. They alerted the Galran authorities but went ahead and stormed the facility anyway. That seems...stupid. Three kids up against more than two dozen heavily-armed terrorists? What were they thinking? Where are the other two? Was Lance the only one to make it out alive?

Oh, Coran's adding details now. The other two are fine, apparently; completely unscathed. Then why is Lance...? Oh right. Human shield in a stampede. Keith's stomach sinks, sending a wave of nausea crashing through him. So three student soldiers go up against nearly thirty armed and dangerous terrorists no problem, and the  _only_  reason there's  _any_ causalities is because Keith froze up in the heat of the moment, forcing Lance to sacrifice his own safety for his.

Keith grips the bed sheets tightly, his throat going dry. He was useless. After all these years, after all that _training,_ he was still just a scared little boy letting other people get hurt for him. He can feel tears stinging his eyes when Coran's voice drifts back to his attention.

"...and that's why we've chosen him to become the prince's personal guard." Wait, what? The reporters are all atwitter again, their cameras flashing at a strobe-like pace. Lance is being shoved uncomfortably close to Keith's bed. Personal guard? What, who?  _Lance?_ Keith mentally kicks himself for zoning out of that bit of the press conference—he'll have to get the details from Coran later.

Keith settles into a familiar scowl; his only defense against the media: giving them shitty photos. He dares to steal a glance at the boy next to him to see how he's handling his fifteen minutes of fame. Keith immediately regrets that decision. The boy— _Lance_ —isn't posing for the cameras, isn't soaking up the attention like Keith thought a regular human would. He's staring at Keith. Wide-eyed and maybe just a little starstruck, but his full attention is on him. Keith can't help but stare back, finding it increasingly difficult to tear his eyes away.

The whole world melts away, Lance's ocean-blue eyes drowning out all the chaos of the room. He finds Keith's hand on the bed with his own and gives it a squeeze and an accompanying smile. Keith can feel his face catching fire again but still can't bring himself to look away. The moment is ruined only when Coran throws an arm around both boys, jostling Keith enough to momentarily disorientate him. When he regains his senses he's lost Lance's hand and his eyes, but his smile remains, even while mimicking Coran to pose for the reporters. Keith finds it impossible not to look out at the sea of flashing lights himself, but for once, they don't bother him. For once, Keith finds himself unable to stop smiling.

 

*   *   *

 

It's not that Keith hates Lance, a boy that he's barely known for all of twenty minutes, it's just that he doesn't see why he needs a personal bodyguard. Keith rarely leaves the palace, and when he does, he has a full escort, not to mention the ever watchful eyes of the paparazzi to keep tabs on him. This whole kidnapping thing was a fluke. He gets that Coran feels horribly about the whole fiasco, but why should Coran's guilt put a permanent damper on Keith's agency? And by agency, Keith absolutely means just wandering the palace unsupervised. Unfortunately, as per usual, matters had been settled without his consent.

Not long after the announcement that Lance was to be his bodyguard, he had been whisked away to receive the very best of Galran medicine: a healing pod. Why they hadn't just shoved him in one of the pods in the first place, Keith doesn't know. He supposes it was more dramatic this way, and the media loves drama. That, or maybe Coran or whoever hadn't officially decided on his "promotion" until after they had patched him up the old fashioned way. Either way, it seemed like a waste of time and bandages.

The healing pods, while incredibly effective, were also incredibly slow. Keith had only ever needed one once in his life. When he was twelve, he was purposefully being a reckless little shit and managed to break his right arm by falling off a balcony. It took him fifteen hours in a pod to fully recover. Which, okay, less than a day in a healing pod versus weeks of recovery and physical therapy  _doesn't sound_ that long, but it was. It was because it was the only point of reference Keith had for how quickly they work.

So the fact that Lance had been under for  _three days_ at this point had Keith endlessly worried. Three days? Really? Keith practically shattered his  _entire arm_ and that took less than a single day, why was Lance taking so damn long? Maybe his injuries were worse than he had let on. Maybe they were a  _lot worse_ than anyone had bothered to inform Keith. The longer Lance stayed under, the more guilty Keith felt. Every extra hour filled him with an anxious energy that couldn't be dispelled through simple pacing—but that didn't stop Keith from wearing grooves into the floor anyway. After the second day Keith actually broke down crying while no one was watching. His well-being wasn't worth this. If Keith couldn't protect himself then he didn't need someone else taking hits for him. He thought of his cousins. He thought of his father.

By the third day he had settled into acceptance. It happened. It's done. There's nothing he could do now but wait. So wait he did.

"Here again, My Prince?" Coran had been hovering around the pods for the better part of the last three days as well, leaving only when Keith commanded it. He didn't need his adviser checking Lance's progress every hour; it's not like the pods gave an estimate for when he'd be out.

 _'Here again'_ was almost funny to Keith, as if Coran didn't already know he hadn't _left_ the healing room since Lance was put under. Keith was actually rather proud of himself—for all his worry and guilt, he'd managed to remain just as stone-faced and cold to his adviser as he usually did. Keith looks up from the book he's only pretending to read to give Coran his best, most innocently blank Serious Look. "Of course. How is my bodyguard supposed to guard me if I'm not within his sight at all times?"

Coran rolls his eyes affectionately, all too familiar with Keith's dry brand of back-sassing. Instead, he hums agreeably and plays along. "An insightful point, My Prince. How kind of you to assist your guard in his royal duty!"

Before Keith can think up an appropriately sarcastic response, Coran turns on his heel and makes to leave again. Just as he does, there's a loud hiss as the pod finally opens. Keith is on his feet before Coran can finish his delighted exclamation. Lance emerges in a cloud of mist and Keith rushes to catch him as he stumbles forward. Pod Fog; Keith remembers that part quite well—like it takes the brain a minute to turn back on after the healing process.

Lance slumps heavily into Keith, his legs clearly more asleep than his brain. He groans quietly as he clumsily tries but fails to right himself. "It's okay, you're okay. I got you." Keith whispers, both because he still feels incredibly guilty for being the reason he needed the pod in the first place, and because he remembers how disorientating it is to be only half-awake and unable to move most of his body. Lances manages to steady himself by draping his arms over Keith's shoulders while Keith keeps a firm grip on his waist.

Lance looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and slips backwards, nearly falling but catches Keith's face in his hands. He tips forward again drunkenly, his head coming to rest on Keith's shoulder. "M'Prince..." he mumbles. Keith flushes at how close he is, voice low and breath warm on his ear. Lance's thumbs slide over his cheeks, leaving burning trails of blush in their wake. "Dn'know y've freckles..."

Keith's brain short circuits.

"Ah, Master McClain! So good to see you on your feet again!" Coran thankfully bursts into the far too intimate moment with a loud, hearty laugh. He slaps the fellow human on the back, which seems to kickstart Lance's brain. His eyes flutter open and return to their regular alertness.

Lance manages a laugh and begins to stretch; Keith can hear several of his joints pop. "It's good to be back." His voice is hoarse and raspy. "I feel like a slept through a marathon!" He grins over a shoulder stretch at Coran, who throws his head back in a whooping laugh. Keith guesses that string of nonsense was a joke. Lance turns his attention to Keith. "Did I miss anything? Another kidnapping attempt perhaps?" Keith scoffs.

"Literally nothing happens here." He crosses his arms, a defensive blush creeping up his cheeks as he turns away from that blinding smile.

"Says the prince that  _just_ got rescued." Lance gives him a wink; Keith finds the need to turn his back to him completely because apparently even just a side-glance isn't helping his reddening complexion any.

"The prince is right, all's been quiet during your absence, Master McClain. Now," Coran gives him another friendly slap that sends Lance off kilter for a moment, "let's get you out of that dreary cryo suit and into your new uniform!" He uses the hand on his back to guide Lance out of the healing chamber, but stops a few steps short of the door. Coran throws a wicked smirk over his shoulder that makes Keith's stomach drop. "My Prince," he says with feigned innocence, "aren't you coming? You've done such a phenomenal job assisting Master McClain in his duty thus far, why stop now?"

Keith glares at him, growing increasingly agitated that  _embarrassed blush_  is quickly becoming his new signature look. If he didn't know any better, he'd call Coran's grin shit-eating. " _Fine._ " he grumbles, crossing his arms even tighter and sinking into a slouch. There's something knowing in the way Coran smiles at him as he shuffles over and it makes Keith furious.

Lance glances between the two, his expression growing more quizzical each time he looks at the other. "Assisting my what now?"

There's red, there's scarlet, and then there's whatever fiery shade Keith's face is. " _It's nothing_." he grits out, making sure to knock into Coran as he stalks past them, entirely ready for this conversation to end.

Coran balks playfully at him. "I'd hardly call it nothing, your highness!" He brings Lance into a side-hug, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze and twirling his mustache with his other hand. "Why, the prince here  _refused_ to leave you alone while you recovered, Master McClain!  _Adamantly_ refused! Didn't leave your side for three whole days! We could barely get him to eat—"

" _Coran stop talking!_ " Keith hates the way his voice cracks. The older man heeds his command but Keith can tell he's biting his cheek to keep from laughing. Keith refuses to look at Lance, he doesn't want to know what he thinks of all this.

He doesn't know Lance. He doesn't know anything about this boy and Lance doesn't know anything about  _him._  Maybe that's why this is so hard. They're complete strangers and Lance got  _shot_ for him. He broke two ribs and cracked five more just to protect Keith, and he acts like it's  _nothing_. Keith can't tell if he feels guilty or  _mad_ or both or neither. Above everything, he just can't  _believe_ anyone would do that for him. There had to be some kind of catch, some ulterior motive behind his actions.

Keith falls into step behind Coran and Lance as Coran leads them down the halls, chatting away animatedly at Lance about his new position. Every time he looks up it's like he's been caught stealing: every time he dares to look anywhere near the other two, Lance catches his eye. He holds Keith's gaze with a soft smile and Keith could swear he could see stars twinkling over his impossibly blue ocean eyes.

Keith's heart flutters uncomfortably in his chest, a quick, erratic beat that makes his hands shake. There has to be a reason Lance protected him, but maybe...maybe it doesn't have to a nefarious reason. He steals another look and gets another sparkling smile, warm and calm like a summer night, and Keith can feel his heart do a little flip. Yeah, definitely not nefarious.


End file.
